
Another night
Another falling of the light
moon cradled on the treetops
in the scratchy embrace of bare twigs
only sounds the endless babble of the stream
and far away an owl singing lullabies.
Another night
Another falling of the light
moon cradled on the treetops
in the scratchy embrace of bare twigs
only sounds the endless babble of the stream
and far away an owl singing lullabies.
this path is straight
has no turnings
it leads to the mountain of words
and unopened books
and it has no end
the hedges are dark
at either hand
though white cups of roses
float here are there
and birds flutter
the path is a stream
between stony banks
its course relentless
carrying its debris of fellow travellers
to the sea
where drowning in disappointment
awaits those with empty hands
and the worries
that ran alongside
like tireless hounds
swim now with jaunty fins
still here
they roll their silver-glitter eyes
reminding us of wild roses
in a forgotten hedgerow
Another through the window poem for dverse and a particularly strange cloud formation.
Days begin
sun-faced and dew-bright
beneath the swaying flowers
but night shadows remain
knotted in deep roots and matted stalks
sky
a sounding board bounces echoes
the silent spread glitter of stars
sun on water
watches but doesn’t listen
only the clouds brood
bringing rain or dragons
and the proof that time passes
drifting from horizon to horizon
dawn to dusk
dropping scales
gnat swarms
stars
on ships that pass in the night
upturned faces
while we
who see the immutable sky beyond
hear the silence that meets the shouted questions
search among the knotted roots
for something we never knew we had
when the rain lashes in grey-green green-grey
and the stove is lit again in June
and the long meadow grass is a heavy sea
some small things bring light
with their own private sunshine
I will ignore the black and bitter,
watch the moon,
silver light on the rain-dripping roses,
and let the hushed rain-patter
become distant footsteps,
and I will send
a thousand petalled, feathered words,
silent as sympathy,
and the way the grey dove
leans in to her mate.
These are ugly days and days of beauty,
foulness filtered through light,
beauty marred by misery,
grief rocks the world to the core,
fissuring my heart.
Watch the moon, she says,
not the red sunset, and remember,
looking into the cool ocean depths of sky,
who we once were
and perhaps still are.
Against the herd of elephant grey
clouds, bulging with rain,
a path sprang, leaping
from golden grass, a banner,
a bridge of rain-prismed light.
I ran through the rain to touch a myth,
I ran brushing damp seed heads
that bent away in gentle mockery,
but rain ran faster,
wiping the sky clean of dreams.
Some things are not for us
to have and hold,
to touch only in wishes, but,
beginning or end,
I saw.
wind sighs
like foam whisper
on the strand
bathed in sun-glitter
washed in water from the world’s womb
leaf-shimmer
shakes the boughs
where a thrush sings into the breeze
tonguing a call to prayer
to the presence of spring
I wade through long grass
meadow waves where flowers nod
and crickets sing
and the heat rises
in a tide of well-being
A lark sings higher than sight
higher than clouds and rain
while we
clay-footed
and leaden in spirit
measure and count
eyes fixed on fashion
the price of futilities
wading deeper and further
from the blissful blue
violets among dead leaves
rust red and crisp
and the green of ivy
blackbird sings in the golden air
stream burble
the promised sun never shone
on pruning and the empty lane
but the neighbour strimmed his daisies
slaughtered his sundrops of dandelions
regardless
fatigue swells
in ocean waves of back and forth
and the tidal eye wanders
to wild tulips
almost over
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